* *
Several weeks after her death, a letter arrived at my house from a conglomerate of lawyers in the city. My presence was requested at the reading of Mrs. Potter's will. It seems that she saved a considerable fortune over the years and she left everything to me.
Solitary Traveler
Yesterday's newspaper lies on the park bench. The date was April 10 and it was Billy Taylor's nineteenth birthday. He had been on his own for almost a year. He didn't know the exact date his foster parents kicked him out after the state quit paying for his care.
Billy read at a sixth grade level. He couldn't sit still in class or concentrate on what the teacher said. While hitchhiking one day he found an old tattered notebook. At first, he kept a diary, and then he found that words came from his soul and flowed like milk from a cool pitcher.
"Today it's San Frisco Bay tonight a train to Houston. I have a hobo's heart. No place can keep me long, no city do I call home. I seldom travels far and never stay long just enough to enjoy the sites. There are no lasting memories to clutter my mind, each meal is claimed and appreciated one at a time. Inside me, I hear: "Keep traveling on, traveling on!
"My body gets weary and I imagine I've found a place to rest I am mistaken and before long, the urge to journey on is too strong Commitments nor friends do I keep, For life's uncertainty forbids it. I must put my place in the sun to one side for today, for who's to say if tomorrow will ever come. What meaning is there in storing up treasures? My quest to be free is the largest part of my destiny.
Up the Mississippi River to the middle of our heartland To get lost in the gently swaying prairie grass dancing in the gentle summer breeze Surveying miles of farmland that sustain our country. Over the Smoky Mountains, east toward the Atlantic Ocean. To absorb each glorious sunrise and startling sunset While basking in the towering majestic mountains that emits strength and courage or touch a feathery soft snowflake as it trickles softly down brushing the icy water with its' delicate fingertips.
This is my life, lonely and solitary at times but there is harmony between the universe and myself. Others may pass judgment on me for the course I take, but I shall leave them to their dismal despair I don't worry about enemies, Even though they may harm me, possessions to be lost or stolen or worry over finances that will make me ill.
I must live in the same world as those around me; we all share the same Fate when we leave this earth. When I am put in the ground there will be no mourners. Strangers will pass and they shall read on my tombstone: "A caretaker for Mother Nature's dominion, a protector for the beauty that was put in trust."'
A Mack truck while crossing Route 66 just west of Oklahoma City hit Billy one day. His notebook propelled through the air and landed at my feet. I've read and reread his words a dozen times since that day, wondering what else the world doesn't know about Billy.
Cruel Destiny
Madeleine Hackett opened the hand-addressed envelope and stared. The dim light from the faded yellow lampshade adorning the long ago shiny brass lamp made her fading eyesight strain further. She intently examined the masculine handwriting for many minutes before she forced herself to unseal what she already knew lay within its confines
She long ago quit expecting a reply from her estranged husband to her request to come home. Her infidelity led him to banish her to the Continent and there she was destined to spend her days. She absorbed the short note her hands now resting on her lap among the folds of her faded dress.
She speaks aloud to no one for she lives alone in her bungalow by the sea.
"Oh cruel Destiny, when you say dance, I dance! When you say cry, I cry! Chained to your every controlling whim am I. You hold the mystical key to my happiness. When I make mistakes, I sense you laughing as if you were perched on my shoulder. When something beautiful happens, it seems you do your best to take it away.
I've tried to rebel against your tyranny but all you've left me, were doubts. I wake in the morning only to wonder what trial you will put in front for me. What decision will you allow me to make, decisions that you think are best for my future. However, you don't really care about my future. You only care about your own selfish desires.
You play with me like a tattered stuffed animal, pulling out the stuffing and scatter it about. I gather up the pieces and plot my next move. Attempting to shun the dark shadow left behind. Leave my spirit and haunt someone else, Someday I will win and own my own destiny but until then I must fight you every step of the way. To overcome the obstacles you put in front of me
You constantly give me challenges, One of us will win the fight but for now, the battle is not lost, I'll not give up not without a fight to the end and may the better of the two of us win! I look forward to very little."
She reached for a glass decanter on the rickety table next to her musty and threadbare chair. Her movements were slow and methodical. With quiet deliberation, she removed the stopper from the crystal decanter; she poured a healthy serving from the decanter. Drawing the glass to her lips, she tilted her head back and took an extended swallow, breathed a heavy sigh, then repeated the ritual.
About the author:
Her thirty-five year residency of Florida is evident in her stories. Her stories are about ordinary people having extra ordinary occurrences in their lives. Hopefully, these stories will please the reader as much as they pleased her to write them.
She may is recently retired but still active artist. She dabbles in painting, photography and macramé for relaxation. She has been writing poetry and short stories since her late twenties. Most of her poetry survived, but her short stories kept evolving. Through study and reading, she now is able to spend the time to improve her craft and share it with an audience.
How A Prank Turned Into a Crime
Last House on Flamingo Road
Now You've Done it
Pirates Demise
Shame on You!
The Cat's Dowry
The Last Straw
The Statistics of Winning
The Sum of Who I am
Two for the Price of One
Where Rubber Meets The Road
You Can Run, But You Can't Hide
A Flash In the Pan
Connect with Yvonne online:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/yvonne.remington
Blog: https://yvonnemremington.blogspot.com
email:
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